


Handwriting

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [19]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, <i>that</i> had sucked, Numbers thought as he stepped out of the path of the expanding pool of blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handwriting

Well, _that_ had sucked, Numbers thought as he stepped out of the path of the expanding pool of blood. He looked over at Wrench: You okay?

Wrench nodded as he looked from the gun in his hand to the man and back again, then turned to face Numbers with a cautious stance. Freed from the sling only a few hours now, and supported only by a brace beneath his shirt, his injured left arm raised his empty left fist toward his chest: Sorry.

Numbers shook his head and waved the apology away; his own gun was still holstered beneath his jacket, cold and quiet. He'd promised Wrench a new ice axe to replace the one that had gotten lost on their last job, and even though he could tell Wrench had thought he was joking, he meant it. But all the same, he was glad Wrench's injury had made firearms the weapon of choice today, even if it had put an unexpected body disposal on their agenda.

Wrench glanced again at the man sprawled on the floor of the cheap warehouse office. Did he say everything we needed him to say?

"No," said Numbers aloud with a sigh. It's okay. He didn't know much. He should have known not to draw on us.

Wrench shrugged in a way that conceded the point, then gingerly put away his gun. It was quite a contrast from the lightning-fast way he'd drawn it, but to be fair, Numbers was not at this moment in mortal danger from a man he'd thought they'd only come to talk to. Bless Wrench's constant vigilence and corresponding inability to believe in anyone's harmlessness.

Struck with a thought, Numbers chuckled, and Wrench frowned, looking for an explanation. The doctor this morning, Numbers explained; when he said you're okay to go back to work, I don't think he meant this.

His fault, Wrench signed back, smirking. He didn't ask about my job.

No, Numbers supposed most people didn't. They asked _him_ , of course; he had to make small talk with strangers all the time. He had a long list of cover stories -- some supported by ID generated by the syndicate's forgers, most just unverifiable bullshit designed to fly beneath the radars of people who didn't know and didn't need to know -- and could spout any one of them off at a moment's notice. But never before meeting Wrench had he considered getting by on the strength of silence. Besides, even if he decided to tell the truth, what would he say? Not all jobs came with easy titles.

Not all relationships did either, he thought, watching as Wrench reached down and picked up the gun the unfortunate ex-bookkeeper on the floor had tried to pull from his back pocket. Wrench turned it over, then wiped the prints off with his scarf and put it on a shelf: You think if we leave this all here, the cops will find it and call it S-U-I-C-I-D-E?

Obviously not -- for starters, most men didn't kill themselves via two center-mass shots from a completely different type of gun than the one found on them -- but the joke from Wrench brought a bright grin to Numbers' face. Okay, Numbers nodded, but you have to write the N-O-T-E.

Wrench pulled a face, sticking out his tongue to show what he thought of that idea. Why do _I_ have to write it?

Your idea. Your H-A-N-D-W-R-I-T-I-N-G is neat. Mine is a D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R.

I know, I know, Wrench signed, though not without a smile. He considered his placement of the gun, then slipped it back into the dead man's pocket. It was probably better there anyway -- the police wouldn't link it to the wounds, but they'd link it to trouble in general, which often got them to stop asking the right questions. It didn't matter that Wrench was in no condition to haul around that stupid auger of his, his repurposed misguided attempt at cold-weather sport fishing; the air had a bite in it, but any river in the vicinity big enough to take a body only had at best an inch or two of ice over it this early in the season. They'd need alternate means of cleanup.

Numbers made a Y with his hand and lifted it to his ear: I'll call S-T-O-N-E and tell him we're coming.

Wrench pulled another face, this one much less lighthearted, but he nodded. I'm using this ugly carpet to roll him up. Just had the car cleaned.

Two critical parts of that sentence lay unfinished: of _what_ , and by _whom_. Numbers had all but turned a firehose on the backseat long before he'd even let Wrench get a glimpse of what a mess he'd made of the inside of his beloved vehicle. He'd joked long before the shooting that Wrench loved that car more than he loved Numbers. Of late, that joke had stopped being quite as funny.

Go easy on your arm, Numbers signed, wagging his finger maternally in Wrench's direction; you aren't healed yet. Nagging accomplished, he turned and started for the door, but felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned back to see Wrench looking down at him, his eyes soft.

I'm sorry, Wrench signed, and when Numbers lifted his hands to respond, Wrench put his over the tops of them and pressed them gently down until Numbers stopped trying. I'm sorry I shot him before he said useful things. I know, he was slow, you could see him, you were okay. But I saw him reach for his gun and knew he wanted to hurt you. I knew that, and I needed to kill him. I needed to kill him.

It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. I know, Numbers signed, smiling to show that he wasn't mad, because he wasn't. I know.

Okay. Wrench nodded and took a step back, then kicked at the rug, grinding the edge of the bloodstain into the fibers with the toe of his boot. He lifted his fist to his chest again: I'm sorry.

Don't be sorry, Numbers signed. I need someone to watch my back. I need my partner.

For a man standing with his toes in the pool of blood seeping slowly from the man he'd just shot twice in the chest, Wrench could be awful cute when he smiled.

~*~

One of the most useful things he'd found about sign language was how it cut through all the bullshit. He couldn't hem and haw, or sidle his way up to something, or beat around the bush with wordplay until he'd circled close enough to the topic to have his meaning come across. So instead he just pointed to Wrench's shoulder brace and raised his eyebrows.

Wrench looked at it and sighed, then nodded and sat down on the edge of the motel bed. It was funny how he was even now -- after this, after _all_ of this -- resistent to being helped. Funny, but not inexplicable. Numbers had been laid up with injuries a couple times himself, and had never stopped feeling that grating, seismic edge when a life built of self-sufficiency ground against the need for outside help. Numbers sat down next to him and ran his fingers through Wrench's hair, flicking away a few flecks of blood from where they'd landed and dried. Of all his sins, he didn't suppose anything he'd done or witnessed in the past twenty-four hours cracked the top ten.

Wrench leaned into the touch, his eyelashes fluttering as he did. Whatever kinder, gentler, less dopey painkiller the doctor had dispensed that morning, Numbers didn't think he'd even taken that. Tough guys, that's what they were. That's why Numbers was so gentle when he ran his fingers up beneath the thick, binding fabric of the brace and began to shift it loose from Wrench's skin. The velcro holding the tightest parts gave easily, but that wasn't the brace's only support; it reminded him of divers' wetsuits, spongelike in its give and tight at once.

Someday he'd have two little scars there, one on either side. The flesh was healing nicely and would leave only pale coin-shaped marks, when all was said and done. Wrench had summed up that initial doctor's visit by splaying his fingers, bending his middle one to touch his chin, and flipping his palm outward: lucky. Yeah. They both had been.

As the brace shifted, Wrench made no sound other than a sharp increase of breath, and Numbers' hands roamed his skin freely under the guise of assisting care. Numbers didn't know if he could touch Wrench just to touch Wrench, and that seemed a strange thing not to know about someone who'd had your dick in his mouth twice, but there it was. But the innermost edge of the material came right up against the curve of Wrench's neck, so Numbers could slide the backs of his knuckles across the skin there, feeling the way ropes of muscle shifted as Wrench tensed and relaxed and tensed again. Numbers knew what that patch of skin tasted like; he could almost find that very taste on the inside of his lips, if he ran his tongue past skin his own teeth had scarred. He wanted to taste it again, but he didn't know if that was something he could do, because they hadn't talked about it, and that had nothing to do with deafness and everything to do with something else.

Numbers could trace what little he knew of internal anatomy as he tugged the brace away. There were the arteries that pumped blood away from Wrench's heart. There was where he could have bled out on the dry leaves, or in the backseat of his car, or on the motel bed. There were muscles that no doubt missed morning push-up routines. There was the bone that had braced the arm that had held the gun that had probably saved Wrench's life today. And there, above it all, was pale flesh covered in the lightest curls of white-blond hair, dotted with sparse constellations of brown freckles. Bits and pieces and parts, all still held together by dumb luck.

Wrench's jaw tightened as he held his arm stiff, but then it was done, and he was there, shirtless and exposed at the edge of the bed. Numbers ran his fingertips over the uninjured curve of bared shoulder and got to see all the little hairs stand on end. Wrench's index finger crooked and he brought his hand down from his elbow: Need. He paused, though, and swallowed hard, and _what_ it was he needed lay dormant in the muscles beneath his skin, unexpressed. Numbers knew what that was like.

Then Wrench swallowed and began the sentence again: I need a shower.

Numbers laughed a little, folding the brace on his lap before replying. Same, he signed, then gestured to the blood smeared along his sleeves. Do you need help?

He'd never seen Wrench's eyebrows shoot upward that quickly. Small shower, Wrench signed after a moment's flustered hesitation; two people won't fit.

Obviously Wrench knew nothing about fitting people in showers. But he wanted an out, and that was all right; Numbers was willing to go along with the excuse. With a nod, Numbers stood and tucked the brace into the crook of his arm: My turn after you.

Wrench nodded and gave a smile, then stood and disappeared into the motel bathroom, shutting the door tight behind him. Okay, it _was_ a tiny little space, and neither of them was a small man -- and to be fair, spending time getting clean _was_ of legitimate concern to both of them at the moment. But none of those had been at the core of Wrench's hesitation. Numbers could be slow sometimes, but not too slow for that.

He tucked the brace into the top of Wrench's duffel, then peeled off his own shirt, which was beyond saving. It was all right; he hadn't liked it that much. He knew better than to wear things he liked to work.

The rest would be all right, though, so he folded his slacks and lay them over the back of the chair where he'd put his coat and jacket. Underwear and socks got kicked into the same general dirty-laundry pile. And then he was naked, and there was no getting around what would happen next if he didn't do something about that: Wrench would finish his shower, come out of the bathroom, suck him off, and then go to sleep on whichever bed the blowjob hadn't happened on. Some men went their whole lives dreaming of this kind of no-strings-attached arrangement. If Wrench were a girl instead of a guy, Numbers could even have bragged about it to the other syndicate assholes.

Numbers pulled back the sheets of the motel bed and climbed in, then closed his eyes and waited. If he listened closely, he could imagine what movements of Wrench's body caused each splash and interruption in the spray. He wondered if Wrench even knew the shower made noise. It seemed obvious to him, but there had been a number of things whose sound-making qualities Wrench had been surprised by when Numbers had pointed them out: snapped fingers, ice in a drink, windshield wipers, motion sensors on convenience store doors. Wrench understood sound but didn't assign the potential for it to everything.

Numbers lay there thinking about quiet, thinking about _being_ quiet when you couldn't hear yourself be quiet. Once, as a child, Numbers had gotten a terrible infection in both ears, and his mother had spent the entire following week reminding him to _please_ stop with all the shouting, even when at no point had he thought he was using anything but a normal speaking voice. In that kind of quiet, loud grew louder to fill the space. Except with Wrench.

Less than a minute later, the shower stopped, and through the thin bathroom door Numbers could hear the sound of Wrench's grabbing a towel and stepping out. Last chance to divert, to put on clothes, to turn out the light and pretend to be asleep, to grab the keys and run for it. Numbers stayed put.

When he emerged, Wrench was wearing the same jeans he'd worn in there, and a damp towel hung over his bare shoulders. His eyes widened as they settled on Numbers' naked frame, the sight of which had visibly caught him off-guard. For a moment neither of them breathed.

Then the corner of Numbers' mouth twitched up into a sly smirk, breaking the spell. Wrench crossed the space between them with two long strides and fell to his knees on the bed, dropping his head with no preamble and taking Numbers' cock into his mouth. Half-hard already, Numbers shivered as Wrench sucked him to full attention, then shivered again as cooling drops of shower water dripped from Wrench's hair onto Numbers' bare thighs and belly. Fuck, Wrench was good at that -- and more than that, he _wanted_ it. He wanted it so bad that if Numbers could somehow walk away and leave his dick there, Wrench probably wouldn't stop sucking it off. The thought made Numbers laugh and grab a fistful of Wrench's hair at once.

In that sense, at least, this was better than all right. Everyone getting something they wanted. Everyone going home happy. Everyone -- and Wrench had taught him this one just the other day, palms flat and facing down, one several inches above the other, both brought in for a single side-tap against the chest -- satisfied.

Wrench kept his eyes shut, but Numbers watched him as he worked, moving and sucking with more focus than Numbers felt he'd ever shown about anything in his life. Watching him was almost hypnotic, so lovely in the abstract that Numbers could almost forget that his own dick was at the center of all of this. Then Wrench would move his tongue along the sensitive spot just beneath his head, and oh, Numbers would remember, so much so that he'd nearly forget everything _else_.

He gave Wrench's hair a tug when he was about to come, as his time with women had taught him it was only polite -- even though his time with Wrench (and it seemed like a lot, even if really they'd only started this the night before last, and wasn't _that_ a hell of a thing to think about) had taught him this wasn't a warning in the same way it had been in the past. Instead, in response, Wrench took Numbers' cock as deep as he could and sucked hard, swallowing him dry as Numbers came into his mouth. The look on Wrench's face as Numbers' come poured across his tongue was of obvious pleasure. Everyone satisfied.

The problem with satisfaction, though, was that sometimes that made it tough to do what was necessary, and Numbers wasn't going to fuck this up. As Wrench let Numbers' cock fall from his lips, Numbers tightened his grip on Wrench's hair and tugged him upward. Wrench looked confused, but there was only so much to be done about that kind of insistent guidance, so he let himself be directed up the bed, right to where Numbers could kiss him.

Wrench tasted like come -- there was really no getting around that one -- and a little part of Numbers' brain began to spin up in panic about how, okay, letting a guy suck your dick wasn't too gay, and making out with a guy wasn't _too_ too gay, but making out with him right after he sucked your dick was crossing some really gay line there. Numbers told it to shut the fuck up and grabbed the waistband of Wrench's jeans with his free hand. Wrench hadn't dried off all the way after the shower, so his skin was still damp and the denim stuck to him as he rolled forward with the unexpected jerk. Numbers could feel him try pulling away, but he held fast and sucked on Wrench's tongue with what he thought was compelling pressure.

The heel of Numbers' hand brushed against Wrench's clothed erection, which made Wrench gasp and Numbers smile. He'd been thinking about this so much in terms of psyching himself up for it that now the chance was here, it was surprising how much he really wanted it. He undid the button fly of Wrench's jeans with a quick series of popping tugs, then slipped his hand in and wrapped it around Wrench's rock-hard cock.

As experiences went, holding another man's dick in his hand wasn't too bad, Numbers thought, especially since doing so made Wrench grab at Numbers' hair and the sheets and anything else in reach. Numbers took this as a good sign and began jerking him off as best he could, considering how tight Wrench wore his pants. He was sure he was being clumsy about it, but from Wrench's eager reaction, his perceived lack of skill didn't matter.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun, with Wrench's body shuddering in against Numbers' and warm, sticky come pouring out into his hand. There. That had been fair, it had been easy, and it had been really hot. Good enough.

No, not enough, and Numbers would get nowhere pretending anything about satisfaction. Instead of letting go, Numbers stuck his tongue into Wrench's mouth and let his now-slicked hand keep stroking. Wrench's cock didn't even have time to deflate before Numbers felt it jerk to life again in his grip. Panic was tangible in every muscle in Wrench's body now, but however much he might be scared of this, Numbers could feel that he wanted it more.

Now this was _definitely_ over into too-gay territory -- but as it turned out, the clearer that became, the less Numbers felt even the slightest bit compelled to care. Once that line had been crossed, it didn't matter whether he was an inch or a mile on the other side. What mattered so much more was the way Wrench clung helplessly to him, pressing their bodies together, holding on to Numbers as best he could with his bad arm as he lay on his good side. Numbers rolled them both gently over until Wrench was flat on his back and Numbers half-knelt over him, half-rested against Wrench's strong bare chest.

He pulled from the kiss only to see Wrench staring at him with a similar panicked horror, only now one that pleaded _why did you stop?_ Numbers smiled back and kissed the tip of his nose, then shuffled down the bed and grabbed at the waistband of Wrench's jeans, peeling them back. Not only was it fair, his hand was getting a cramp.

Numbers had seen Wrench naked before, of course, but looking at a drugged, feverish man while lowering him into the bathtub and _looking_ at him, hard and come-smeared and flushed and prone, were two quite different things. Wrench was gorgeous like this, and not like a woman would be, but like himself, and that was okay too. Numbers ran a hand up the inside of Wrench's thigh, from his knee to his groin, and was startled by a noise he'd never heard before -- Wrench, groaning with pleasure. Some part of Numbers' curious brain had always wondered what it would take to get a sound out of him. He'd discovered one way; now he knew another.

He repeated the touch, and this time Wrench arched his back as he gasped, his voice sweet for as rusty as it sounded. But it could have sounded like nails on a chalkboard for all Numbers cared -- presence was everything. Pleasure had become more important than control, which meant it was now Numbers' job to make good on it.

With a smile, Numbers lay back down alongside Wrench's body and kissed at that sweet spot on his neck while stroking him off again. When he bit down on the soft, stubbly skin of Wrench's throat, Wrench gasped, so Numbers did it again, this time harder. There'd be a mark there in the morning, but so what? It was coat-and-scarf weather, and if anyone saw it anyway, Wrench deserved it to be known that he'd gotten laid last night. It might even make him blush, and that was _more_ than worth it.

When Wrench climaxed for the second time, it was with more noise than Numbers had _ever_ heard him make -- not as loud as the shout of pain when Numbers had grabbed his injured shoulder, perhaps, but more like speech, even though there were no words behind it. He lifted his hips into Numbers' touch, then spilled come all over Wrench's hand and his belly again. They were quite the mess, the two of them, but that was all right, together.

"Shh," whispered Numbers against Wrench's temple, hoping the warmth of his breath would carry what sound couldn't. "I've got you." Wrench shifted as though to pull away, but Numbers held him close; he grabbed for the edge of the motel comforter and pulled it over both of them, wedging Wrench in on the side that was still tucked in. He stretched his arm out along the pillows and nudged Wrench's head against it, until his cheek lay almost at the patch of skin claimed for Wrench's star. From the moment the ink had been jabbed beneath his skin, it had become Numbers' favorite tattoo.

The next thing he heard was a little snore, which startled him into a quiet laugh. That was all right. Their bodies together, naked and warm, that was all right too. Strange, but not wrong. He still needed a shower, but that, like so many things, could wait until the morning. Numbers closed his eyes and listened to the silence in the room, and did not try to fill it. The silence was enough.


End file.
